Difficult
by rscoil
Summary: Held captive by the opera ghost, Christine decides to show him just how difficult she can be.


There was another shuffle of papers in the next room. Christine smirked as a quiet string of curses followed. He emerged moments later, as she turned the page of her book.

"Christine, have you seen my most recent composition?"

She looked up at him. "How am I expected to know which composition that might be, Erik?" He was only Erik now. He forfeited the chance to be called an angel when he'd taken her freedom.

He ran a hand through his straggly hair in frustration before retreating to his room once more.

Christine slipped the missing sheets between the pages of her book. _Well, well. Let's see how the opera ghost enjoys being haunted._

* * *

"My pen, Christine. Where is it?"

"I haven't the faintest idea why you are asking me. Surely you know the whereabouts of your own pen."

"It is not where I left it."

"Really? How peculiar. Are you certain you remember where it was?"

"Quite certain, Christine."

She gave a dainty shrug. "Perhaps age is beginning to fog your memory."

He looked like he was physically biting his tongue as he stormed out of the room. A moment later, she heard him exit the front door.

She retrieved the pen from beneath her chair cushion and placed it tauntingly where she'd found it.

* * *

"My oars are missing."

"How ghastly. Imagine being trapped down here, unable to get out."

He fixed her with a cold stare. "Enough of this, Christine."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You are many things, Christine Daaé, but you are not a fool. You know perfectly well what I mean."

"Enlighten me."

"Stop being difficult. You've been causing minor mayhem all week. I am tired of it."

"Are you so certain that you are not simply losing touch?"

"My sanity is not the point of contention here. I have lived in this house for twenty years, and things have always stayed where I put them. You arrive, and suddenly things go missing. I do not call that a coincidence."

"Perhaps you would like to reclaim your solitude. You need only release me."

His laugh chilled her to the bone. "No. That Erik cannot do. Christine belongs here. But, Christine would do well to remember that the Angel of Music is also the Opera Ghost! If she persists in this, Erik will show her what true mayhem is!"

She listened with dread as he left the house, his laughter still echoing around her.

* * *

"Erik, where are the knives?"

"Why ever would you need a knife? To stab your poor Erik as he sleeps? Hmm?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I am only trying to slice this bread, which is difficult when all the knives have vanished from the kitchen."

"How peculiar. Though, perhaps it is for the best. Knives are dangerous things. Erik would not want Christine to get hurt."

She slammed the door behind her, but not before noticing the self-satisfied smirk playing on his dead lips.

* * *

"Have you reorganized the bookshelf?" Christine asked.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Where are my books?"

"And which might those be?"

"The ones in a language I can actually read."

"Oh, those books. Top shelf. Right at eye level for easy perusal. They are pushed back a bit as well. We wouldn't want one to fall on your head."

From where she stood, Christine could only see the underside of the shelf. "How am I supposed to reach them?"

"You may call for Erik whenever you like. He is, after all, your most humble servant."

He rose and plucked a book from the shelf. "I believe this is your current selection. But what is this?" Two sheets of sheet music fluttered to the ground. "Now, how could that have happened, Christine?"

"I don't know, Erik. Your house hides many secrets."

His amber eyes seared into her soul. "Yes, Christine. Many secrets."

* * *

"You are deliberately straining."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"If it was an issue of skill, I would suggest practice. Alas, this is intentional on your part."

"Perhaps I am losing my spirit."

"On the contrary. I've never seen you so alive." He shuffled a few papers around before passing her a few pages. "Try this."

She glanced through it. The piece was every bit as angry as she felt, a musical expression of just how badly the whole situation made her want to scream.

The organ's voice, and his, thundered around her, pulsating with the same anger that flowed in her veins. Her voice cut through his like a gleaming blade, shoving aside the suffocation of the moment. There was only music.

At some point, she became aware that there was no more music written. And yet she carried on, improvising as she went. The music laid bare her frustrations, expressing the feelings for which she had no words.

At last, silence fell, and Erik started scribbling. "I must apologize, Christine, for underestimating your genius."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought you unworthy of performing _Don Juan_, and yet you were beyond imagination."

"This is _Don Juan_?" She looked at the scarlet notes with renewed interest.

"It is. This particular duet has sat unfinished for ten years. I have never been able to complete it to my satisfaction, and yet you do so on the first attempt!"

"I am not a composer."

"No, but you are a genius musician. And yet-'" He studied the music in front of him. "You are in pain."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Such pain, Christine, of an intensity that it finds a home in _Don Juan_. Is being with Erik really so terrible?"

"It is not a question of being with you. It is simply terrible to have no power or freedom."

"There is music here, and beauty. Is that not enough?"

"Not if I have not chosen to be here."

He studied her for a few moments. "I understand that pain. I can hear that pain. How can Erik-how can I-inflict that upon you?"

"You don't have to. You can let me go."

"You will not come back."

"Perhaps I will and perhaps I will not. But, Erik, that should be my decision, not yours."

"Christine…"

She took his hands in hers. "If you do not let me go, what will we ever be? Two people trying to aggravate each other for some small satisfaction. Enough of this, Erik."

He stared down at their entwined hands. "You are warm."

"Pardon?"

"Your hands, Christine. They are warm. I did not know that other people were so warm, nor that I could be touched without pain." He finally met her gaze. "I do not want you to go."

"The alternative is letting resentment build between us until we grow to hate each other."

His eyes widened. "You do not already hate Erik?"

"Sometimes I do."

"At this moment?"

"No. At this instant, I hear my Angel, and I see a man who is desperately misguided."

"You do not see a monster?"

"Only a man."


End file.
